03 December 2015

Rust eats the bus an incurable illness.Hanging street lights cocked broken heads in morbid kind of merrimentframed in the worn dusty dusk of this recycled winter night.In the stalled line of carsoutlined figures of every one, and each waitingfor a ride to something:And here, right next to me, is Someone-- who is everyone--and doesn't each someonelong to go back to, or to move on from,this thing to the next thing right now--if only just to get away,to flee the unseen revolution backwards to right where we were yesterday?
I wasn't going to say anythingseeing our self-made urban blight
yet it comes to me again--sunsets are supposed to be stunning and I believe though we don't noticeeven the land of Marshears our sighs.